Love can always use a little salami

Puppies representing the top five breeds according to the American Kennel Club are lined up in order at American Kennel Club headquarters in New York. From left are the Labrador retriever; German shepard; beagle; golden retriever and Yorkshire terrier.

Photo: Kate McCroary, Associated Press

I don’t fall in love easily, but I’m pretty sure this is the real thing. There have been others, and I stubbornly thought we had something going, but this is different. This is true love.

His name is Obie, and he’s a German shepherd. He’s my granddog.

Sure, it can be argued that I’m only in love with him because I can love him and leave him, only seeing him when I want. But our relationship goes much deeper than that. Anyone who argues otherwise doesn’t understand true love.

We have a bond, Obie and I. I take him on long walks, overfeed him at meal time, give him treats, slip pieces of steak to him under the table, give him more treats, take him to Tahoe, let him lick my plate after I’m finished, take him to the beach, give him more treats, and ask nothing in return.

For some reason, though, he loves me unequivocally.

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No one is more excited to see me than Obie. When my son drops him at my house for a playdate or sleepover, he goes absolutely wild with joy, with hardly a glance back at my son as he drives off. Love will do that to you.

Into the kitchen we go, to our favorite place, the refrigerator. It is there that we look into each other’s eyes, bonding once again over the piece of salami we are about to share. And then another, and another. Leftover chicken from the night before — bring it on. It’s a feast of love.

Then it’s off for a walk, where everyone we pass comments on what a handsome dog I have. I beam with pride, forgetting for a moment that I had nothing to do with his looks. But I glance at his regal face and muscular physique and bask in the knowledge that he is mine. Sort of.

I mumble a happy “thank you,” and we move on to the next compliment from the next passerby. Eventually, we get to a place where there are no people and no dogs, and I take him off the leash.

“Run free, my love,” I say. “I know you’ll always come back to me.”

And he does, whenever I call. I slap a piece of salami into his mouth in appreciation of his incredible loyalty, and we move on to the next adventure.

Other dogs I’ve had never loved me as much, and I’m honest enough to say I never loved them the way I love Obie. First there was Ralph the mutt, who always ran away, and then there was Murphy the golden lab, who liked to bite children, and then there was Rocko the pug, who urinated on my treadmill machine and blew up the motor, and finally there was Lucy the pug, who had the audacity to die only months before I started writing this column, depriving me of a multitude of material. Being 17 was no excuse.

I even had other granddogs, but it wasn’t the same. There was Bandit the dachshund-corgi mix, who only liked women. I tried to bond with him, but there was no connection. Perhaps he was jealous of what Obie and I had going. Maybe that’s why he bit both of us.

But now there’s just Obie and me. I never thought I’d be in love with a German shepherd, but I am. I’ve forgiven the breed for their Nazi concentration camp work, and realize that Obie is from a different generation that probably doesn’t even remember those snapping, snarling dogs from the pictures and movies.

Just because I’m in love doesn’t mean I’m blind to Obie’s faults, though. Sure, he likes to bite the necks of other dogs that run away from him, but he’s never hurt any of them. And when he crouches down in attack mode when he sees another dog a block away — that’s just Obie being Obie. Nothing a piece of salami can’t control.

I wish we could be together more, but the time always comes for goodbyes. When we hear my son’s car pull up, we head to the refrigerator to commiserate. Since we both love cheese, we share a final piece of provolone and then walk quietly to the door. With a hug and a shared glance, he is gone.